


Just Give Me Moments

by barricadeur



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Brief Mentions of Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/pseuds/barricadeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras comes home from a protest to a not-empty apartment.</p><p>---</p><p>"What happened?" Grantaire says. His other hand grips Enjolras's shoulder, as if to keep him from pulling back, but Enjolras is so tired that the energy necessary to break away seems monumental. </p><p>He lets Grantaire inspect him, says only, "I hit my head."</p><p>"On someone's <em>fist</em>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Give Me Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



It takes Enjolras a long time to work his key into the lock. His fingers, numb from the cold, seem to have grown fat as sausages, and he leans against the frame when a dizzy spell hits, waits for it to pass. His head is buzzing. 

When he finally gets the door open, the first thing he notices is that all the lights are on. He frowns; it's not like him to forget. The fluorescent glare only makes his head hurt more, and he moves to shut them off again, but then there's a sharp gasp from the couch.

"Jesus _fuck._ " 

"Oh," Enjolras says. "I thought you'd left."

Grantaire stands, crosses the room in four quick strides and grabs Enjolras's chin in his hand. Enjolras winces, but he lets Grantaire turn his face up toward the light and examine the cut that bisects his hairline, on the right side. He can still feel the sluggish trickle of blood oozing down the side of his face; the corner of his mouth tastes coppery.

"What the fuck happened?" Grantaire says. His other hand grips Enjolras's shoulder, as if to keep him from pulling back, but Enjolras is so tired that the energy necessary to break away seems monumental. 

He lets Grantaire inspect him, says only, "I hit my head."

"On someone's _fist_?" 

Grantaire walks him to the couch and Enjolras goes along without protest, sits on edge the couch when Grantaire ushers him down and lets him pull off his jacket. "I was in the front -- the cops started closing in on the people behind us and they spooked. I got shoved from behind, and I hit my head on the side of a mailbox." He gives Grantaire a pointed look, but he can only conjure up a faint echo of anger. "You'd know if you'd gone."

"Trust me," Grantaire says, "if I'd known this was going to happen, there's no way I'd've missed out."

The corner of his mouth quirks up as if in a smile, but his eyes are sad and laced with worry. "Stay still," he says, "I'm gonna go get some stuff."

Enjolras sits back against the couch. If he stares at a fixed point -- a pockmark on the opposite wall, or the corner of his television -- it makes the ache between his temples subside. His phone vibrates once in his pocket, but he doesn't take it out. Combeferre saw him go down, had helped him back up and gotten him out of the crowd. He would have taken him back to his apartment, too, only Enjolras had insisted that he was well enough to walk the fifteen blocks. The movement needed Combeferre's assured presence, his uncanny ability to remain calm even when everything threatened to fall to shit around him. Combeferre will deal with anything important in his absence.

That was part of this morning's fight with Grantaire, Enjolras recalls. He'd insisted that Grantaire attend the rally with him, and Grantaire kept pushing back.

"Why should I go?" he'd said, his eyes hooded and his jaw dusted with days' of stubble -- always signs that he'd been sober for a period of some time, and Enjolras chastises himself now for not noticing then, for not taking heed of the desperate edge to his words. 

"Because it's important for us to show the government that we won't stand for their thuggish behavior!"

Grantaire shook his head. "I don't want the party line. That's why _people_ should go. What about me?"

And Enjolras sputtered out, "We need everyone to help out!"

"Not everyone," Grantaire said. "At least, not for everything. You have Combeferre to keep the peace. Courfeyrac, to keep everyone's spirits high. Jehan, to lead the chants, and Joly to make sure all the marchers stay well hydrated with Bossuet helping him. Feuilly, for talking to those people who look at you and see a rich boy playing games -- hell, if it comes to blows, Bahorel is worth three of any of us. What about me?"

And Enjolras, pinned by Grantaire's gaze like an insect in a display case, hadn't known what to say to that. 

Grantaire comes back in holding a tin of Band-Aids and a hand towel. He sits beside Enjolras, fluffs up a pillow and guides him to lay back. 

"This might hurt," he says.

"It already hurts," Enjolras admits.

"Well, that's perfect, then." He presses the towel to Enjolras's skin, holding it there. They sit like that for a while, neither of them saying anything. Faintly, Enjolras hears the clock in the kitchen ticking forward.

"I think it's stopped bleeding," he says eventually, but Grantaire just shakes his head. 

"Fifteen minutes. Then we can check."

"How did you learn to do this?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire keeps the towel steady. "I told you, I was a Boy Scout."

"I thought that was just your joke for why you always carry condoms -- 'always be prepared.'"

"Well," Grantaire smiles. "That too."

Enjolras tries to imagine Grantaire like that, in pleated khaki shorts with a neckerchief, his hair neatly combed and parted. "Why did you quit?" 

Grantaire shrugs one shoulder, careful not to loosen his grip on the towel. "Eventually, it stopped being something cool kids did. I already kind of knew I was different, so I didn't want to do anything to draw attention to myself. A coward, even at thirteen."

Enjolras frowns; the muscles pull on his cut and he holds back a grimace. "You're not," he says. 

Grantaire doesn't answer, just takes away the towel. "I think you're good." He leans forward, bringing his face close to Enjolras's to examine the cut. Enjolras can feel his breath against his hair. 

He busies himself with the Band-Aids, selecting the right size bandage from the tin, pulling apart the paper casing and stripping off the backing. His fingers are gentle on Enjolras's skin as he smooths the adhesive side, doing his best to avoid catching strands of his hair. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, focused.

Enjolras wants to kiss him, but instead he says, "I'm sorry."

Grantaire smooths a finger over the flaps of the bandage. "It's fine," he says. "I always like playing doctor with you."

"For this morning," Enjolras clarifies, even though he knows Grantaire knew what he meant.

"I don't think you have a concussion. Did Combeferre see you off?"

Enjolras nods.

"Then you should be fine," Grantaire says. He makes to stand, but Enjolras sits upright, fast enough that his head throbs, and halts him with a hand on his knee.

"You keep me grounded," Enjolras says. He draws his fingers over the seam of Grantaire's jeans. "I know you think that's a bad thing, that you're bringing me down, but it isn't and you aren't. I don't know how it happened -- actually, I do, and it's all your fault -- but you've become the voice in the back of my head, the one that says, 'prove it, asshole,' whenever I get too caught up in my own ideas, and I need -- that." He swallows away the original word he'd meant to say there ( _you_ ); it's too much, for nine o'clock on a Monday night, six weeks into whatever this is.

Grantaire's gaze seems to have gotten stuck at a level with Enjolras's shoulders. "I should have been there."

This time it's Enjolras who draws Grantaire's face into his hand. "You're here now," he says, and kisses him.

"You really should rest," Grantaire says, sometime later, when his lips are kiss-stung and his hair is a tangled mess from Enjolras's hands. "After I did all that good work to patch you up, I'd hate for you not to heal properly."

"Stay?" Enjolras asks. 

"Of course." 

Grantaire helps him stand up, and their hands stay twined together as they walk into the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> written for [harborshore,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore) who is having a rough time of it, based on two prompts given on my tumblr.....find me there at [barricadeur](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/)! thanks to [mere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi) for reading along, and bloc party for writing [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHWrX7X8v9Q) from which i stole the title.


End file.
